


Bitter Wine

by torakowalski



Series: When We Were Almost Young [1]
Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-22
Updated: 2005-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We lasted five months.  We started the day you climbed off the plane at O’Hare, looking as washed out and exhausted as I’d felt since Stella and I ended.  We ended the day Benny sent you a one-way ticket to Inuvik and I sent you back to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank yous to [](http://buzzylittleb.livejournal.com/profile)[**buzzylittleb**](http://buzzylittleb.livejournal.com/) for super fast beta.

We lasted five months. We started the day you climbed off the plane at O’Hare, looking as washed out and exhausted as I’d felt since Stella and I ended. We ended the day Benny sent you a one-way ticket to Inuvik and I sent you back to him.

I don’t know how it happened, but one day you were the bastard who stole my life, my name and my best friend, the next day you… well, you were still an annoying shit, but you were more than that. You understood me; you _knew_ me and you still didn’t shy away.

You weren’t my type. You dress like a bag lady, like a reject from _Oliver!_ , but once we stopped growling at each other there was something about you that I wanted to know. We went out for a drink – it wasn’t a date, at least I didn’t think so at the time. I stopped calling you Stanley; you started calling me Ray. We talked about things that didn’t matter, swapped cop stories; I didn’t ask about the Quest, you didn’t mention Stella. You smiled at a couple of the things I said and I wanted to make you do it again. My jokes were crap, but you laughed anyway; your arm was harm and heavy around my shoulder. We got hammered watching hockey in the sports bar on Madison, then we set off into the night. We were both too drunk to drive, and anyway, the night was warm, the stars were bright and the company was surprisingly good.

I tried to get you to take the path down by the lake, but you got a funny look on your face and said no. Instead, you dragged me to a park you said you went to as a kid. We both grew up in this city, but I don’t think we have one place in common. There was a mound of earth and grass at the edge and you dragged me to the top, turned my face with your palms on my cheeks and kissed me softly.

When we pulled apart, you grinned at me, your smile soft and a little out of focus. “You don’t taste like tea,” you said, like it was the highest compliment you could pay. I was drunk and enamoured and I let you pull me down onto the grass. On the way home, I ducked into someone’s garden and cut a rose from a bush. You laughed at me, but you took it and a few months later, I found it pressed between the pages of your book on Steve McQueen.

I couldn’t take you home ‘cause of Ma and Frannie; you didn’t want to sleep with me in the bed you’d let Fraser fuck you on. We started hanging out every night, not talking about it, not making plans, but gravitating together, and more times than not ending up in the Duvol Motel. We’d stumble into the room, kissing and biting and frantic, rougher than either of us let ourselves be with other people. You’d get us naked and for a moment you’d be poised above me, skin translucent in the neon blue lights shining outside, then you’d slide down the bed and take me in your mouth. The bed creaked in counter-point to your mouth, in perfect rhythm with my thrusts.

One night, as I groaned and gasped and came in your mouth I couldn’t keep mine closed. “Love you.” I whispered before I could get my brain under control.

You swallowed, more in shock than anything, then you pressed your face into my groin, breathing hard. “Go to hell,” you panted, but your lips on my belly were soft.

The whole of the next day you kept looking at me over the top of files you weren’t really reading, slipping me grins that made my face flush and made me drop my coffee so often Frannie offered to get me a training cup. We had dinner at the little Chinese place that Stella hated, but we didn’t talk about her once, then you told me you’d bought new sheets and took me back to your apartment.

When the tickets arrived, you carried them around with you for three days before you told me about them. You said you weren’t going to go, but you kept fingering them when you thought I wasn’t looking. I knew you were going. I think I’d known it from the moment you arrived. You and I have passion and lust and desire, but you and Fraser have your friendship, your partnership. I know how Fraser is with his partners; I could never have come between that.

So now you’ve gone. You left this morning. I took you to the airport, kissed you in the car, then went in to work. Frannie and Welsh and the Duck Boys asked if you got off okay, but there was no sympathy in their eyes; they didn’t shy away from me; they didn’t know and I couldn’t tell them. I’m not even sure I deserve sympathy. Yeah, I loved you, yeah you’re gone, but we got what we wanted from each other. I don’t know if I saved you, but I hope so. I know you saved me. We’d lie together in the your bed – _your_ bed, _our_ bed, not Fraser’s bed; I’d kiss you and it would taste like something pure, something holy. I’m trying to hold onto that taste now, but the memory is sliding away, turning into something bitter, like the coffee you used to drink.

Stella called last month; today I think I might call her back.  



End file.
